Winter's on the Wing
by peregrinepandora
Summary: Standing on a precipice, Snape needs to talk. With Harry Potter as his only witness, a story is told, sins are admitted, and a debt is paid.
1. Prologue

Winter's On the Wing

~*~

"A hooked-nose man was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small, dark-haired boy cried in a corner…" - J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, page 522.

~*~

_"Winter's on the wing_

_Here's a fine spring morn' _

_Comin__' clean through the night_

_Come the May I say_

_The winter's taking flight _

_Sweeping dark cold air _

_Out to sea, spring is born_

_Comes the Day I say"_

~*~

Flickering candlelight forms unseemly shadows that dance against the dirt wall.  There they wait.  The battle brews all over the countryside, but they must wait.  A blank stretch of yellow parchment extends between them, a canvas waiting for its work of art.  The painter is Albus Dumbledore, miles away.  The masterpiece is one of two words: yes, or no. 

In the small quarters, they both sit with legs curled up to their bodies.  The thick, musty air rests heavily on them.

Harry watches Snape rub his hands together.  Neither had said a word since Dumbledore closed them up underground some time ago.  The candlelight floods across Snape's harsh face, only barely softening the hook of his nose.  Harry can almost hear their heartbeats synchronized in the mute silence.

"I almost wish I would have been a squib," Harry says, feeling only some relief to see the lips of his Potions master curl condescendingly.

"If I am killed and you back down, so help me, Potter," Snape says coolly, "I will see to it that you never have a moment's peace."

The familiarity in his tone is comforting.  Harry nods.  "Yes, sir," he says, meeting the older man's eyes.

Snape unexpectedly recoils, holding his clasped hands tighter around his knees.  He had placed a pocket watch in the dirt, and the minutes evaporated in the ticking magnified by silence.

"Your mother, Potter," Snape whispers sharply, "was among the very few who ever showed me kindness."

"Sir?" he asks, but realizes: his eyes.  He had looked at Snape with Lily's eyes.  The dirt in his hands crumbles easily with a little pressure, victim of the arid summer.

"I have a debt to her," Snape continues, with little notice of Harry's face in the shadows.  "And no matter what you may think of us, Potter," he sneers, but with lacking vigor, his eyes fixed on the parchment between them, "A Slytherin knows to repay his debts."

Harry finds all coherence gone.  In the long hours of silence before, he had spoken to himself, and the force of another voice on his mind is near painful.  Luckily, or perhaps not, Snape eradicates any need for Harry to speak in return.

"There is an old myth among the great pureblood families," he begins, speaking meticulously, "that is not oft believed by the more sensible, particularly those very far from death," he looks down, eyes intense and dark.

"The myth," he persists, after a moment, "Expounds the tangible state of memory.  Once one dies, according to the story, his or her memories are only real when held in the memories of others."

"Sir?"

"Your ignorance is duly noted," he said silkily, "and very much expected."

Harry scoffs.

"In any light," Snape says softly, "there is no other vessel."

Harry looks at him, down at the parchment—still blank—and then back up.  "Yes, sir."

Snape nodded.  When he begins to speak, Harry is conscious enough to stay silent.

"When I was seventeen, I took the Mark and a wife…"

~*~

Author's note:  I know, starting another story?  You betcha.  This one will likely be in four or five parts, with maybe an epilogue.  The title, and subsequent lyrics, is from "Winter's on the Wing" from Lucy Simon and Marsha Norman's "The Secret Garden".  Drop me a note if you're reading, I'd love to hear suggestions!  Thanks!


	2. Valerius

Winter's On the Wing

~*~

It had been cloudy for weeks, but the snow had yet to come.  I was born in December, the coldest night in history.  The night of my seventeenth birthday was the second coldest.

My father had come to me, telling me of a new Order, a new…association.  An old friend had started it, and its appeal was torturously strong.  My father, Septimus, had joined and promised my allegiance as well.  My mother had died long before but she would have had no misgivings of it.

I was younger by nearly a year than most of my classmates, and by the time December came, I had already heard their great tales of the man with the red serpentine eyes who spoke to snakes and promised glory.  On that night, the thick fog hanging over the Riddle house seemed impenetrable, and I wanted nothing more than to run through it and beg him to take me.

The crisp wind sighed through the bare trees when my father opened the door for me.  In the smoky foyer, the first line waited for me, cloaked.  They closed their cold fingers around my arms and led me to him.  At his throne—that's what it would best be called—a snake slinked between the legs, hissing omnipotence.  He was obscured by a shadow until he ducked out to examine me.

His face was rigid and sharp, his cheekbones sculptured to best fit, but his countenance was cheerful.  Turning my face side to side with his thumb, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

"You are prepared," he asked me, "for what I will demand of you?"

I met his eyes, red and focused.  "Yes, my Lord."

His thin lips parted in a half-smile.  "Severus," his voice had a slight sibilant whistle in it, "give me your arm."

Long, bony fingers closed around my bare wrist.  His wand pushed up my sleeve and rested on my forearm.  He met my eyes again and let his lips twist, his face grave.

With the most indiscernible nod, he cried out, "Morsmordre!" and the nerves in my arm cried out with as much vigor.  It was a pain unlike I had ever felt before, or since, but a pain that was not altogether unpleasant.  I made no sound.

After the endless seconds of my branding, the Dark Lord turned on his heel without looking at me.  My eyes wandered down to the singed Mark on my arm, the snake still burning red, nearly the color of his eyes.

Even inside, the air was frigid.  That is what I remember, the biting air on my skin and the biting sting on my arm.  The Dark Lord returned a moment later with a girl on his arm, a Slytherin girl in my year.  She was rather frigid as well.  She was called Octavia, the eighth born; her eyes and hair were dark, and her skin was olive.  It was not uncommon for marriages to be arranged between two people with similar features: it made for more certainty in the traits of their children.

The Dark Lord reached for our hands and laced them together in his own.  The ceremony of it was absurd.  Octavia was silent, and tranquil, but proud.  Her nose never left the air, not even as we consummated our marriage, per custom, with our fathers standing sentinel at the door.

She conceived a child that night and I returned to Hogwarts without her.  Perhaps you have noticed the absence of some of your Slytherin classmates.  There is only so much one can do, Potter.

Come graduation, I moved to an old estate, one saved for me by my father.  It was deep in the country, sheathed by forest.  Octavia was already there, occupied by decoration, a new staff of house elves, and an extensive library in which to lose herself.  When I saw her, for the first time since our union, she was already swollen with child and her countenance marked with displeasure upon meeting my own.

I know there were many stairwells in the house she had design of throwing herself down in the early months.  Time made it bearable.  By the end of August, we had made our peace.  

She paced past a bookshelf, looking up at odd intervals with her eyes and face fixed.  At that point, the bulge at her waist had grown to large to accommodate climbing a ladder, and had left her too hormonally imbalanced to attempt any magic without fear of catastrophic results.

I was reading in the corner when I felt her eyes on me.  We had barely spoken in those two months, and because of that, I felt her presence more keenly than I suppose I would have otherwise.

"Which one?" I called to her.

She smiled at me gratefully.  Her face had filled out some; it was very becoming to her.  Pointing to a thin, blue volume some three shelves out of her reach, she said a quiet "thank you."

I stood, walked to her, and pulled down the book she had indicated.  It was not difficult for me to reach it, and I realized at that moment just how small she was.  Her head bobbed to my chest, at her height.

I handed her the book, and as she reached out to take it from me, she gasped and grabbed to the bookshelf for support.  It took only seconds for her face to relax and her breathing to regulate, and she pulled the book from my hand and laid it aside, pressing my hand against her swollen abdomen.  Two swift kicks hit it; I felt my child moving inside her.

For the first time, I had the reality that I was her husband, and that child's father.  I imagine the look on my face was rather unseemly but she didn't indicate it if it was so.

I'd like to say that after that we became as sickeningly in love as the Malfoys—close your mouth, Potter; shock doesn't suit you—but nothing much changed from that point on.  We continued living our lives in parallel, two lines never meeting.  

So, to find her at my door in the dead of night, long in labor and begging for my support, was a shock, to say the least.  I invited her in, naturally, and we shared a bed, more or less, for the first time since our marriage.  She was so young—we both were—but I had long been exposed to the inner workings of the Death Eaters and Slytherin politics, whilst she had been carefully sheltered.  It was quite clear she had never been so frightened in her life.

You are the only one I've ever admitted this to, Potter, but in all honesty, I hadn't either.

The woman in my bed, whimpering in pain, was all but a stranger to me.  A stranger who wore a ring bearing my family crest.  Neither of us had ever witnessed a birth before, nor did we know anything of the process.  I slept for several hours, half expecting to find her already nursing the child when I woke up.

Of course, that was not the case, and when I did finally rouse, I wondered how I had slept through her screaming, which she continued absolutely.  When she wasn't doubled over in pain, she clutched onto me like a lifeline.  It was terrifying, quite truthfully, having her fingers curled around my robes, her anxious eyes locked with my own.

I cradled Octavia against my chest.  She stopped, everything really, the wailing and hard breathing and vice grip on my bedclothes, and looked at me.  We shared an understanding then, that our fear was not so much in the birth of our child, but in that, in mere moments, he would be…real.  

And he was.  He was born just as the sun came up.  I caught him in my hands and his little eyes met mine.  I must have sat there for the longest time, just peering at him…

Octavia called him Valerius, which meant valiant, and I suppose he would have been, had he been a Slytherin at least.  I gave him the name Aeneas, which promised intelligence.

Exhausted, Octavia slept for hours, long hours, leaving me to watch him, which I did.  I bathed him, very terrified of breaking him.  I've handled potions of the most volatile nature, walked on the bloodiest battlefields, held life and death in my hands, Potter, but none of that was as frightening as holding my son.  You will understand one day.

I shall try to avoid any semblance of unnecessary sentiment in saying so, but in those moments, I knew that my life had begun again.  I knew the childish skirmishes of Hogwarts were long over—yes, though the grudges remained—and a new road had unfolded before me.  I thought myself an adult, finally about to receive the power I had so longed for.  I had a skull on my arm, a wife at my side, and now a child as well.

I measured all time, for at least the three years following, in pre-Valerius, and post-Valerius.  But that is not to say, unfortunately, that I was a kind and loving father.  I'm afraid "kind" and "loving" are words I still am unable to understand.

~*~

Author's note:  This is longer than the first, no?  I'm struggling a little with snarky Snape versus reflective Snape, let me know what you think about that.  As you can see, not Severitus.  Cowboyinuyasha, Anora, Lyra, thelionandtheserpent, and Sidekickwannabe, thanks for reading!  I hope you keep up with the story.


	3. The First Kill

Winter's on the Wing

* * *

My father came to visit us in the winter of that year. Valerius was in my arms—as it turned out, even then I was rather good at keeping children silent—and Septimus looked on him with delight. My father said he thought that perhaps the Dark Lord would be interested in Valerius. Naturally, Octavia refused outright.

My father took his hand to her face, and with a sickening crack, left its print there. Octavia looked at me as though she expected me to do something, to avenge her, I suppose, and my father's eyes bored into my back, warning me that her vindication was not worth my while.

"Slytherin wives respect their husbands," Septimus said to her, and she had sense enough not to say anything more. He turned to me. "And Severus, Slytherin husbands must be rulers, must be dominant and in control. How can you expect the Dark Lord to grant you power if you cannot even master this simple woman?" His eyes offered enough a blow that his hands had not needed to move at all.

"I expect," he said, just barely above a whisper, as he left, "things will be more to my liking when I return next winter."

I'll not let you believe I am an innocent in this, Potter, but _you must know_. I'm sure my father went to the Dark Lord with news of my…_inadequacy_ as a husband—as a Slytherin man, really. You understand. The Dark Lord summoned me, in any light.

I remember so keenly, so vividly, the crisp wind flapping through our robes and the skeletal branches scratching against each other.

It was the first test of my loyalty. The Dark Lord beckoned me to him, and I bowed at his feet.

"Severus," he hissed, "To your feet, my servant."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Severus, will you prove your worth to me, here tonight?"

I could not bear to see him, see those _eyes_. I kept mine on the ground.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Severus," I've realized, he always prefaced his commands with a name, "your worth rests on more than your ability to cast curses. You must be able to follow commands as well."

"My Lord?"

"Severus, never question me."

I knew better than to answer.

"_Imperio!_" he commanded, and—well, Potter, you know what it feels like, don't you?

I was in the air with my wand arm raised. His henchmen dragged out a poor shivering body from the brush. I could feel every nerve in my arm twitch, the heat of my wand, and I could see the empty eyes of the man on the ground before me. I cast _Crucio_ after _Crucio_ at him, my hand swish-and-flicking as if on a string.

Finally, when I thought my eardrums would burst from the screaming, I heard my voice raise the Death Curse. I've never heard a voice so cold, a sound so scathing. It hurt my ears more than the racket my victim had made.

It hurt the rest of me as well. It hurt that I couldn't control it, that I couldn't create that sound when I had power over myself, that _I couldn't _choose_ to kill this man_…

I will not bore you with sententious drivel, but suffice it to say you are changed. You know that. No matter how cold—or how _right_—you are, when someone is dead at your hands, you are changed.

Nights were long and liquor was enticing. Not guilt, Potter, there was no guilt. I was not in the least sorry for killing that man, or the five after him, or for beating my wife. When your conscience is gone, when your power is granted—or when you think you've been granted it—

You hope you've been granted it, in any light. But the seed of doubt had been planted, oh yes. Much as I tried to push it down, there was always a voice taunting, "you didn't choose to kill him.

"The Dark Lord chose to kill him…"

I am not an honorable man, not a good man, Potter, but I don't have to tell you that. Callow and naïve as I was then, I thought her to be my possession, as my father had possessed my mother. She was under my control, and my life was not. My father had bruised my ego, and while I know better than to blame another person for my actions, I will say he played a part. Before that moment, I had never thought of striking Octavia.

She was a good woman, a good wife, honestly. She was beautiful, quiet when she could be, and she came to my bed when I asked for her. Yet, she was a caged bird in that manor, and in the second year, her wings began to beat against the bars.

* * *

Author's note: A little more background and a little more reason. As I hope is clear, Snape's first murder is another turning point. Hopefully I will be able to update more in the summer, sorry this has been so long coming! As always, thanks to Kateri1, Lyra Pendragon, Anora, and Cynthia in West Virginia for reviewing. I'm not going to stop writing if I don't get reviews, but you guys make it so much better!


	4. Control

Winter's On the Wing

* * *

It was nearly three years that passed. The Dark Lord was content to delegate slaughter to the various other reapers with snakes on their arms and I was content to sip smooth brandies with the devils in my study.

In the spring, Dark Lord summoned me, and demanded that I bring Valerius to him. Of course, I knew what he was capable of, but had no fear of him. Muggle murders and curses in the sky were all he had managed so far, and I had seen every child born into the Death Eaters' ranks—and you _can_ be born into it, Potter, much like your good friend Draco—christened by the Dark Lord himself.

Kneeling before him, before the Dark Lord, I pushed my son over without a moment's hesitation. I was so—so certain, Potter, so sure that I was right. I had never wavered. I didn't flinch when the Dark Lord raised his brand to my child.

Octavia wailed when she saw it, and slapped me with all the might in her little body, which truthfully was quite modest. Perhaps time has deadened it, but I barely remember a smart. I, on the other hand, dealt her a blow that sent her to the ground and left her in a lifeless heap. She learned very quickly.

Octavia would have protected Valerius to the ends of the Earth; I have no doubt of that. Nonetheless, for all her protestations, I also have no doubt she knew they were worthless. It was the first time I ever raised a hand to my wife.

I remember keenly, the force of the blow and the feeling of her soft skin on my hand. It stung, quite badly, and the echo cut through the air as a taunt. Octavia was crying, Valerius was crying, I am sure I was shouting, and through it all, that blow resonated off every stone.

She picked up Valerius—I set him on the ground, Potter, I didn't drop him—looked me squarely in the eye, and walked away with him.

She didn't miss a step. She didn't trip, didn't hesitate. And I didn't respond. Of course I was furious, and my pride was dangerously bruised. But I knew that in public, she would stand at my side and cover her own bruises and paint on a smile. For that, I thought—it is ridiculous, looking back on it—I thought that smile was my control.

I knew the Dark Lord could raise my wand at anyone with a simple curse, but I could raise my hand to my wife without any such mandate.

Perhaps you remember, Potter—I'm sure you remember—a scene from my Pensieve? You have always been quick to judge, quick to assume. Often, it was against me, but this time, your supposition brought me your baseless pity.

Octavia had done something—had something done to her, rather; she had been found in the bed of another Death Eater. Who is irrelevant; someone dragged her there, and the Dark Lord had dragged her back to me.

"Disloyalty!" the Dark Lord had boomed. "This order, if you will," he spoke more dangerously now, a tone far more frightening than any _Sonorus_ charm could have produced, "must be based on loyalty and trust. Loyalty," he breathed, "and _trust_.

"Severus!"

"Yes, my Lord," I answered dutifully, prostrating at his feet.

"Do you know—can you _guess_—what we do to those that betray our _trust_." His tongue hissed on his teeth.

"Yes, my Lord." Octavia stood before me, only affecting the proud, nose-in-the-air attitude I had come to expect from her. She was frightened; she was shaking. I tipped her chin up and met her eyes. She had aged much more than four years.

The Dark Lord, and his entourage of Death Eaters, had left me to my devices with her. He had set my son in the corner, and instructed him to watch what happened to his mother, the traitor. A lesson in devotion, if you will.

Baited by a few nice brandies and an insufferable streak of pride, my hand sent Octavia down. Her body crashed to the floor, yes, but her façade had fallen as well, and she lay before me, helpless on the ground, resigned and unmoving. She simply refused to get up.

I taunted her, furious that my prey was yet again no challenge to overcome. I pulled her up, pushed her against a wall, and she shrank away from me, shielding herself as best she could. There was no fight left. Valerius knew.

He had been crying in the corner—you remember, Potter?—but ran over to the heap on the floor that was his mother.

My wand was at the ready, but Valerius jumped in front of her. A father never kills his son if he can help it. So, we merely stared each other down until the Dark Lord came back, ready to witness the kill. A pair of Death Eaters forcibly removed Valerius, and I calmly waved my wand.

I had killed seven people before that night, including my father—I didn't tell you that, did I? It wasn't important. I had killed seven people. Etymology preceded my wife; "Octavia" means "the eighth".

The graveyard has been overtaken by parasites, both vegetation and human. After your victory in the First War, little care was taken with the graves of the dead from the wrong side, as it were. Her tombstone has grown over with ivy, or had last I saw it. I have not visited often. I didn't love her, nor did anyone else, as I understand it, save perhaps her son.

And so, he is buried next to her.

"They will tell you, Severus," the Dark Lord whispered into my ear, "That blood is thicker than water. That may be so, but this," my forearm burned, "this, is thicker than blood."

And he was right. Mind still fuzzy with alcohol and vision blurred by my wife's cold body at my feet, the words of my master barely registered. He called my son a traitor, an expendable traitor, which meant no admonishment. Only death.

But a father never kills his son, Potter. Someone else's father does.

The Death Eaters were kind enough to leave me with the bodies of my dead family. I never wanted to be a father, Potter, and I never—I never loved my son. I knew that, when he was in my arms, limp and cold, fearful eyes wide but empty.

I didn't hate myself until fall. Until October. October 31st, 1981.

* * *

Author's note: And the pieces begin to come together. Up next is how all this manifests in Snape coming to the Order, and maybe that's obvious by now. Anyway, thanks for reading and reviewing. Thanks to Lyra Pendragon, Anne O'Nimous, Kateri1, and Hannah28 for reviewing the last part. You guys rock!


	5. Tetelstai

Winter's On the Wing

* * *

We knew it was coming. There had been a tip-off, a secret told, and we knew. When he fell, we all felt it.

And when I saw you, saw that scar, and knew that you were alive because of your mother's love…I wondered if, perhaps, had I loved Valerius, he might have lived as well. Instead, he was merely the latest victim of my greatest achievement.

This is my only photograph of him, and I've always kept it with me. It is not easy to return to the man who killed your son and call him "master", Potter, but when you have a reason—a good reason…Well, this—he—was it.

I want you to have this, to keep it. To remember that, no matter the deed, it is the reason—Potter, listen to me—it is the intention behind it that makes it good or evil.

I spent a few hours slumped over a bottle, but then sobered up and put my affairs in order, expecting in full to be killed, and returned to Hogwarts. I told the Headmaster what I've just told you, though with much less humility.

Dumbledore examined my arm with only feigned interest before he turned to me and said solemnly, "Tetelstai," the final word of the prophet Jesus upon his death. It is an accounting term, in Greek, which means, simply, "paid in full".

I told him not yet, that I still had debts outstanding. My sins had been forgiven in that office, among paperclip orchestras and Sneakoscopes and the other gadgets of his liking. My sins had been forgiven, but I had not served my penance. I told Professor Dumbledore to save that word for when he meant it; I began naming names, and spying on what was left of the Death Eaters.

Even the worst atonement, cold isolation, deep brooding anger, constant fear, never amends the wrong that was done. I know things now that I didn't know then, but they're still dead.

My contributions to the First War were admittedly few. This war, however…will be different. That's not enough to save my wife, or my son, or your parents, Potter, but it may be enough to save you. There is only so much one can do."

Harry nods delicately, but without clear intention.

The parchment between them glows aureate, the black letters forming on it in stark contrast.

_Yes._

To Harry, "yes" means Voldemort's found them, that black robes are billowing just above their little oasis in the sand; but Snape stares at the parchment as though he suspects—more clearly, expects—something more to appear. The air rests heavily.

"Sir?"

Snape's grim face turns ashen, but his eyes are set. He turns away from the glowing parchment precisely. Pulling his cape around him, and mindless of the heat, he bows.

"Sir!" Harry calls as Snape pulls his wand from the folds of his robes.

"Yes, Potter?"

He briefly examines his hands before answering with a strange conviction. "Thank you, sir."

Snape's lips curl slightly. "In a moment, Potter. Only a moment." After chancing one last look at the unchanged death sentence, he nods, and mutters an incantation to open the foxhole. Climbing out, he calls, "It is only me," and the Death Eaters outside scramble audibly toward him, "the boy is long gone."

Harry prepares to Apparate, flattened against the dirt wall, his chest pounding. His last vision is Snape, swallowed in silence by a blast of green light. Harry's body materializes in the whirring silence of Dumbledore's office.

Harry pulls himself up off the ground and spins around, ears tuned to the susurrus hum of Dumbledore's gadgets. He does not find it difficult to imagine Snape, alive and sitting in one of the chairs in front of him. Nor does he find it difficult to imagine Snape in a stone-floored old manor cradling the body of his small son. Nor, at that moment, jumping in front of a curse.

Harry pulls the watch from his pocket and snaps it open. Valerius waves, smiling. Harry finds himself smiling back, and thinking of Snape. And he remembers. He understands at this moment that words have a certain worth when they are more than ceremonial. Snape had asked Dumbledore to save exoneration for when he meant it. Dumbledore is far away, fighting the beginnings of a war, but Harry means it enough to make it true.

"Tetelstai, sir."

* * *

_"And you'll be here to see it_

_Stand and breathe it all the day_

_Stoop and feel it, stop, and hear it_

_Spring, I say"_

* * *

Author's note: Wow, it's over.

Have had many questions about why Snape and Harry are down in the foxhole together. I never really thought it through, but here's my answer: someone from the Order has to protect Harry, and it's Snape. It's not important to the story, but there's the answer for those of you who wanted it. ;)

Brownie points for anyone who spots the "Wicked" reference. If there are any questions that weren't answered, I can address them in personal emails if you'd like.

Thanks SO much for everyone reviewing! It was so fun to read them all, and a lot of people gave me some good pointers that I'll look into if I decide to revise this story. It's been a blast.


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